Secrets and Selfishness

I live in a little bitty house right off the campus of Abilene Christian University. It is really only 2 rooms with a bathroom shooting off one and a kitchen shooting off the other. For a single guy like me, it is perfect. I love my house. The only real problem is that I do not have a washer and dryer, so I am forced to either go to the laundromat (which can run upwards of $10 every time I do laundry) or bum off friends.

Needless to say, I bum off friends a lot.

So here is how is normally happens. 9 times out of 10 I will go to Heather MacLeod and Elizabeth Canarsky’s house. They are really cool to let me use their stuff. I even keep my detergent and bleach over at their house. And while I am there I get to catch up on the latest drama and share a little of my own. I have come to really enjoy those times a great deal. They have been good friends to me.

One time when I came over to their house Heather was reading Post Secret: Extraordinary Confessions from Ordinary Lives. She immediately got me hooked. If you haven’t heard of it, you really should check it out. It is a compilation book in which an editor (Frank Warren) placed photocopies of actual postcards sent in to him by people bearing secrets they have kept from everyone in their lives. It is truly remarkable what people have said in these postcards.

Some are funny—like the one person who fantasizes about eating the skittle that has been on the floor at work for a few weeks. Some are happy—like that girl who wrote in saying that when she is with “him” she feels like she can do anything. Some are sad—like the guy who says that he never got over “her.” And some are just scary—like the doctor who admits to fantasizing about cutting him/herself.

If nothing else, this book has really helped me to see that there is a whole world of people out there that are dealing with a multiplicity of things. There are goofy, funny, sad, and depressed people with whom we come into contact everyday. There is no telling what someone close to you is going through.

There is life, good and bad, outside of my own. Why do I have trouble seeing that?

I guess that seems so trivial and shouldn’t need to be said. But I need it. I really do. I need to be reminded that I am not the center of the universe. I need to see that other people are living their lives, and are struggling just as much (if not more) as I am. Isn’t that what Jesus intended all along?

Anne Lamott, in her wonderful book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (102), puts is quite well:

To be engrossed by something outside ourselves is a powerful antidote for the rational mind, the mind that so frequently has its head up its own ass—seeing things in such a narrow and darkly narcissistic way that it presents a colo-rectal theology, offering hope to no one.

Perhaps that would do me/us a lot of good to remember. In fact, I know it would.

Happiness: Filthy Living in a Colonial City

As most of you know, I have spent a pretty good bit of time in Mexico over the past few years. This time has been exceptionally important to me with regards to my own personal and spiritual development. That place and those people have re-shaped my view of self, and have re-defined the ways in which I see my present and future ministry.

Here is a story about a time when it changed my view of self:

In the summer of 2005 I moved in with Iker Márquez and his family for a few months. It was the first time I’d ever lived with a family other than my own for any extended period of time, and it was really healthy for me. I got to see what being in a family was like. By that I mean that up until then I had only played the role of a child in a family setting, and here I was an observer of parents. I even helped out a little in the parenting process. It was really cool.

But often I would accompany Iker on trips that he had to make for work. He would go often to the city of Querétaro (about four hours north) because he had some contracts there. Querétaro is one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen in my life—literally. And I have seen a lot of places. They have an ancient aqueduct system that spans most of the city that is really impressive. And the downtown area is purely colonial. There are no modern buildings at all. In fact, only certain architectural styles are even legal in select parts of the city.

For the most part it is clean and organized—a rarity in central Mexico. They are entering a contest to determine the world’s most beautiful city in the next few years, so great amounts of work have gone into making it look very nice. They even have little “Q” symbols all over government property to increase the continuity of the city’s design. All in all, it is a great place.

And it is a cultural center, as well. There are many ex-patriots from all over the world living there. Just walk down the street downtown and you’ll hear British English, German, Portuguese, and Japanese. The weather is nice, the food is good, and more and more people are realizing it is a great place to live.

That having been said, it must be remembered that not everyone has caught on to the cultural “bandwagon,” so to speak. For example, Iker rents a small apartment on a street not too far from downtown called Cerrito Colorado. In it he houses his factory employees when they come from Cuernavaca to work. In the summer of 2005 there was only one man (teenager) living there. Everyone called him Cacuate (Peanut). He, most assuredly, has not caught on to any semblance of a “bandwagon.”

We decided to stay at that apartment one night when we got to Querétaro to drop off some chemical products (Iker is a chemical engineer) and check on the employees. As we entered the apartment, I encountered what I will forever remember as the most disgusting sight of my young life. The place was a disaster. He had literally not cleaned up in months. There was trash, half-eaten food, dirty clothes, cigarette butts, porn, and papers strewn all over the floor. There were cockroaches running around all over the guys’s things. The smell alone could make you sick.

We went upstairs and found that he had been sleeping on a blanket on a tile floor—he didn’t even really have sheets. And above his bed was a poster of La Santa Muerte (The Holy Death)—the icon from an occult movement gaining more and more ground among Mexico’s youth. Truthfully, it was one of the most disturbing things I’d ever seen. None of us really knew what to do.

So we cleaned. Now keep in mind that we walked in the door about midnight, and that we had to be across town at about 7:30 a.m. to make a delivery. But we decided that it was absolutely wrong to let someone live in something like that (even voluntarily), so we cleaned it for him. We picked up all of the junk that was on the floor. We killed the bugs. We scrubbed the bathroom. We mopped. We disinfected. Before all was said and done, it took us a little over 3 hours to clean the apartment—and that was completely ignoring his bedroom! But we did it. We blew up an inflatable mattress and finally got in bed about 3:30 a.m. But by this time we were so wired we might as well not have gone to bed at all. So we sat up talking.

What is it about conversations late at night that makes them seem to be far better than those at any other time of the day?

It was during this conversation that Iker said something I’ll never forget for the rest of my life. He tends to do that, by the way! He said, “¿Sabes qué, Mateo? Soy tan feliz” (“You know what, Matt? I am really happy”).

I couldn’t believe it. After what we had seen and been through that night, he was happy?

I have thought about those three words more in the past two years than possibly any other three-word phrases I have ever heard. It has caused me to re-evaluate what I have typically understood as happiness in a profound way. The thing is, I think we define happiness in two distinctly different ways.

Wait…How do I define happiness? You know, I am not sure that I even know. I don’t even know if I recognize it when I see it. That might be part of the problem…

But he seems to. He finds happiness all around him. He finds happiness in being with his wife. In playing with his son. In doing evangelism. In working. He even finds happiness in spending time with his friends—albeit cleaning up a filthy apartment. He finds happiness in everyday life.

I think if I were honest, I find happiness in the extraordinary events that happen every so often. Maybe that is how I define happiness.

So what exactly is his rather long post about? Well, I guess I don’t really know. I think it is about how I want to just be happy. How, if I were honest, I already am happy—or at least have the potential to be. Or, it might be about the dangers of living a dirty apartment rented by your boss. It might be about how beautiful Querétaro is. Perhaps this post can be about whatever you want it to be about. I’ll let you be the judge of that.

Geriatrics

So I am officially getting old. I know, it is stupid of me to think that at the age of 23, but sometimes I do. No matter what I’d like to believe, with every passing day I am getting older. That is actually kindof scary to me.

Here is my lamentable tale: Just the other day I was substitute teaching at a Junior High School when a girl who looked to be in the 7^th or 8^th grade came up to me and asked, “Are you someone’s dad?”

I was speechless. I stood there with my mouth hanging wide open in complete despair.

I looked at her with a look of sheer disbelief and politely barked back, “There is no way I look old enough to be one of your dads!” I just could not handle it.

She proceeded to tell me otherwise, informing me that I do, in fact, look that old. After a heated discussion I actually showed her my driver’s license and she gave a half-hearted “I’m sorry” and went on her way—totally ruining my self-image! I sent a text message to some of my family and friends and informed them that I was officially a “grown-up.” It was a sad day.

And as if that were not bad enough, someone (Chai) had to put the bright idea in my head that playing intramural soccer would be fun. Well, it would be a great idea…if I had played soccer in the past 10 years! Needless to say I am a little out of shape.

A few weeks ago we had our first game. We played a team that was younger, faster, healthier, and more aggressive. They did not score once. It made us feel so proud. But during the course of the game, I realized just how out of shape I was—I was winded during warm-ups! It was crazy.

I fell down more than once. But one particular time I took a nose-dive right on top of a ball. I got grass and dirt in my mouth! It was admittedly not one of my better moments. I got up and realized I needed to take a break. I had two scuffed-up hands, and more than one strawberry on both my knees. I was tired. And as I walked off the field, this guy who looked to be about 3 years younger than me looked at me and said, “Walk it off, grandpa.”

Yes, it’s a fact…my life is over.

Perhaps this post could be perceived as complaining. And it probably is. I am getting older. You are getting older. And that is just a part of life. And besides, I am smarter than all of them anyway–or so I’ll tell myself to make it all bearable!

I Love Coffee Shops

I love the whole coffee shop atmosphere. I love just about every aspect about them. The coffee. The pastries. The sound of steaming milk. The lighting. The type of people that come in and out so often. The music. The smell—maybe that more than anything. I don’t know what it is about the coffee making process, but I’ll even admit that coffee smells better than it tastes!

I live in Abilene, TX now and have been really impressed with the coffee shop scene there. There is one in every single part of town—there is even a Starbucks in the library at ACU! And, for the most part, they have really good coffee and service.

Ironically the best coffee in town, in my rarely humble opinion, is that of Peet’s—in a grocery store! They have one called Major Dickason’s Blend that is my favorite coffee in town. It is bold—as it should be—but instead of being bitter and leaving a rough taste in your mouth, it is juicy and complex. But it is not acidic—I can’t stand acidic coffee. It smells almost buttery when it is in the bag. I highly recommend!

You know, I really can understand people not liking coffee. I feel sorry for them, but I understand. What I cannot understand is people liking gross, watered down coffee. I am sorry, but Sunday school coffee is absolutely disgusting.

But it holds no candle at all in comparison to powdered creamer. Oh, holy word. What an astonishingly vile substance if there ever was one.

But you know one thing I think is cool? Cool, but ironic. The very year I leave the little metropolis of Henderson, TN they get a really great coffee shop right downtown. These guys do it all. They roast their own beans and make their own blends. And they are not too bad if I do say. It is called Besso’s. Kudos.

What makes me mad is that in Montgomery—a city about 3-4 times the size of Abilene, and about 60+ times the size of Henderson—has only 2 coffee shops other than Starbucks. No mom-and-pops. What a shame. But, in the business owner’s defense, Montgomery hasn’t supported the ones that have shown up from time to time. They always go out of business within a year or two of being in business. It is kinda messed up, if you ask me. But you know what? They didn’t! And I doubt they ever will.

I have no idea why I just told you that. Venting, I guess. They say it is healthy to vent. So I did.

I don’t know that this post has much of a point, but I am sitting in a coffee shop writing and playing on my computer. XM 26 is on the stereo in the background. I have a city street running right beside me. I am, in this moment, happy. I just wanted to tell you that. I don’t do that enough.

My coffee is cold. I think it is time for another cup. My best.

Things I Like and Don't Like...

Just in case you were ever curious, here is a random list of my likes and dislikes…

I like books by Erik Larson. He is so good. They are all non-fiction, but they are much more interesting than almost any novel found on the shelves of Books-A-Million. I am reading Thunderstruck right now, and it is really, really good.

I really don’t like it when bands or artists produce one really good record and then the rest of their music is no good. I listen to Sean McConnell’s 200 Orange Street CD all the time, and would consider it one of my all-time favorite records. So I got his Cold Black Sky as soon as I could. It is just not all that good. I mean, it has some great songs on it, but nothing like the consistent quality of 200 Orange Street (an album I recommend, by the way).

I love The Godfather movies. All of them I know it is taboo, but I even like the 3^rd one. I do. I just love those movies! How great would it be to get to wear those wicked cool suits and speak Italian and carry a gun? I just don’t know very many guys who wouldn’t love to be a gangster, you know? I want that music to start playing every time I do something cool. I want, just once, to say to someone, “I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

I like having my laundry done. Doesn’t that just feel great?

I hate sand storms. I just experienced my first here in West Texas, and I certainly hope it to be my last.

I really don’t like really sugary foods and drinks. I just don’t like super sweet things. It is so weird. The older I get, the less I like sugar. I tried to drink a Capri Sun earlier and couldn’t even get through it.

But I do love coffee. If there is one substance on earth without which I could never live, it would be coffee. But not this super dolled-up stuff. I am talking coffee. Dark, rich, bold, and juicy. And the older I get, the more I am drinking it like my grandfather—black. Now I don’t expect everyone to go with me on that, but I just like the flavor of black coffee. Every now and then I like a little cream, just to take the edge off—but only in really bold coffee

I like it when Bible teachers cuss. I don’t know why.

I do not, in any way, shape, or form, like carrots. Vile orange weeds. Edible spawn of Satan. Why would I like any food that tastes as though it is nature’s feces, has relatively little nutritional value, and makes people turn orange if consumed in large doses? I am struggling to see the up-side to all of this.

Oh, but I love Mexican food enough for the whole world. Taco Bell/Bueno, Tex-Mex, authentic only-made-in-Mexico, it doesn’t matter. I’ll eat it and love it.

I like seeing people I knew a long time ago. It is awkward at times because you never know what to say, but I still like it. It is amazing the number of people who come in and out of our lives at different stages. I’d love to read someone’s theological reflection on that phenomenon someday.

And last, but not least, I like written prayers. I am beginning to read a lot of devotional literature, and have been really impacted by the written prayers of Walter Brueggemann, Michel Quoist, and others. I have even begun to write some of my own. Who knows, maybe I’ll post one or two sometime.

That is all for now.

What do you like?

Dream Weaver

This is a post specifically for guys—although I would imagine it would strike a chord with many girls, too. Have you ever been standing in line in a store, or maybe at a ball game or something, and you see her? There she is: none other than the girl of your dreams. You expect Dream Weaver to be playing any second over the intercom, and an angelic light to show up behind her accented by a soft breeze and a glowing tan. Okay, maybe I’ve seen too many movies. But, you get the point, don’t you?

This happened to me today. I was standing in line at the video store, and this girl walked in with a group of her friends (which made her that much scarier!). She really wasn’t the kind of beautiful that made you want to put her on the cover of Vogue; I mean I did a double take, but it wasn’t something that just makes the masses drool. She had a natural beauty that many women don’t have—nothing glamorous, just beautiful. Does this make sense? She looked to be about 20. She was about 5’6” with long wavy blonde hair. She had a quiet face—the kind that takes you a while to get used to, but when you do it captivates you every time. You know the kind I am talking about. Those are the ones that keep you attracted for years and years. This girl had a lip ring on the left side of her bottom lip (something that I always find especially cool. I don’t know what it is about them, but I love them. Actually, I think that half their charm is that I have never dated a girl that looked like that and they look like the kind of girl that my mother would hate. This makes them much more attractive, you know?). She wore clothes that said she cared how she looked, but not enough to go overboard with it on unnecessary days. I like that. I can’t stand extremes on both sides of the equation.

I would imagine this rings a bell. What do you do? If you are like me you look in her general direction more times than is necessary (every now and then making that wonderfully awkward eye contact that says that she notices you, too), and want so badly to go talk to her. I wonder her name and where she is from. I wonder if she thinks I am cute—half as cute as I think she is. I wonder what I would ask her about if I did talk to her. I think about the embarrassment if she thinks I am creepy. I get scared and I get nervous. But I never go talk to her. All of the things that I feel and wonder are good, but the not going and talking is, in so many ways, not.

Have you ever heard that Dave Matthews song Little Thing? It is a song about this very thing (it is on Live at Luther College—which is his best album anyways—so go check it out). Dave talks about the girl from whom he got directions one random day in New York City. He, like so many of us, did not go talk to her, and he spends an entire song devoted to the emotion of regret about not having done so. I think I relate exactly. She will be know as “the girl that I saw then” for the rest of his life. That is kind of a shame, don’t you think?

What is the message of this random post? Perhaps nothing—it might just be me needing to vent a pointless idea. Or perhaps there is an important message here: it is that we should take risks and talk to those random “dream girls.” Undoubtedly we would find the overwhelming majority of these girls to be nothing more than an extreme disappointment on many levels—but at least we would know that for sure. You know, we only live once. I say we start taking those opportunities to make a fool of ourselves. Who knows…maybe we’ll meet one who really is a “Dream Weaver.”

Nostalgia

Today I randomly saw a magazine cover of the magazine AARP. It had Paul McCartney on the cover—who is ironically 64! But I was immediately reminded that my great aunt had that same magazine on her coffee table one day when I recently came to visit. She and I were never especially close, but seeing the magazine made me miss her a little bit. I thought about my family—especially my mother and grandmother—and I wanted to go home. I got a glimpse of the familiar and it made me want more.

Have you ever had it happen that you hear, smell, or see something that instantly reminds you of something that happened to you or someone you knew in the past? For a moment or two you become completely defined by nostalgia. You get emotional. You gladly sacrifice the now for a moment in your mind. I don’t know, I just think that memory can be one of God’s greatest gifts.

But I think that one of the reasons why this strikes such a chord with me is that I have actually left the familiarity of home. I have something to remember. I feel like that is such an imperative part of growing up. Even if we eventually come back, I think that everyone should leave home (and by that I mean the city and/or state or country of their childhood and adolescence). If I hadn’t left, there is no way I would be the man that I am today.

Plus, it changes your attitudes about home and family. I now look at those things with affection and love—something I never felt when I was living at home (after all, I was the typical teenager who talked about leaving every 5 minutes only to actually leave and begin to realize how good it was all along. Such is life.). But in my heart of hearts I know that I would feel only bitterness and remorse if all I knew was home. I see so many of my friends who never left home and I feel so much pity for them. A desire for a maintained comfort zone and/or a lack of money has robbed them of personal growth. What a shame. In fact, my friends that actually left home are, by far, happier than my friends who stayed home for college.

What does all of this have to do with Paul McCartney on a magazine cover? Not much. What it does have to do with is memory and nostalgia. I gladly have both of them. Maybe they should be specific goals of people. How many times have you ever set as one of your goals, “I want to live this time so that I will look back on it with nothing but nostalgia”? Maybe it is naïve and impossible. No, I don’t think so.